


Milagro

by Dekka, pulltab (Dekka)



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Agent Auston Matthews, Auston's thought process is pretty messed up and pretty unhealthy, Gun Violence, Gunshot Wounds, M/M, Robbery, Violence, oh boy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-10-14
Packaged: 2019-10-16 01:33:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17540171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dekka/pseuds/Dekka, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dekka/pseuds/pulltab
Summary: Auston will be the last to admit that he was held in a hostage situation because he was checking out the guy in front of him in line.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> !!Trigger warning!! Dark thoughts, gunshot wounds, gun violence, robbery 
> 
> Obviously this is 100% made up 
> 
> (Unless the TML guys are all secretly secret agents hahaha)

Auston’s spent approximately five percent of his life on the wrong side of a gun. It doesnt sound like much, when he thinks of it that way, but seconds feel like hours when your current breath could be your last. 

This time is no different. 

The gun in front of him is cocked and loaded, if the way the man refuses to point it at the mom and children next to Auston is anything to go by. 

Willy is going to have a field day when he hears about this. He’s been trying to get Auston to switch over to online banking since they were first trainees in the academy. 

“Walk,” the gunman commands, and starts edging them towards the back. So it’s a hostage thing. Auston really wishes he would’ve stopped for coffee before this. These things take time and even he can admit he’s not firing on all cylinders right now. 

The funny part is, after four years on a special task force in violent crimes, Auston’s never once ran into trouble off the job. Sure, there was that time in Detroit where his room was raided as he was held execution-style in the bathtub, but even till this day he swears that was a post-job smear mission from his last major case. Willy wasn’t convinced, but he wasn’t the one shot in the shoulder that day. 

“Walk,” the man hollers again. His gun digs rudely into the small of Auston’s back. 

There was an instance like this last year, where a gunman unknowingly had an agent under his thumb. Auston remembers the report, remembers reading it over Freddie’s shoulder as his friend quoted out certain lines to their team. It was a good laugh, a good ending. 

The Mom in front of Auston starts sobbing, gripping her children to her chest. 

The gun at his back presses in harder. “Shut them up.” The hiss is close enough to Auston’s ear for him to lock up a little, disgust making him antsy. 

He doesnt know what the guy expects him to do about the kids, but he raises his hands playfully in surrender anyway. Time to go to work. 

There’s two routes he’s fond of. He could go gun, takedown, then hold, or- 

A kid around his age pushes forward, out of the lineup. 

It’s really inconvenient.

“Let the kids go,” he demands. He’s cute, determined, if not a little stupid. 

“Stop, get back in line,” Auston begs, and tries to seem sincerely scared. 

The gun at his back gets aimed instead at the new guy’s chest. Any calm Auston was previously basking in turns decidedly sour. 

Now in real surrender, he raises his hands, left to play the role of a hostage to keep everyone safe. It’s how they end up locked in a back room, their pockets empty and morale flattened. 

Auston knows the door is locked, but isn't so sure this was a one man job, so he stays put. The Mom is holding both her kids in her lap, her lips continuously pressing from one forehead to the other, whispering prayers. 

They’re the main priority. If it comes down to it, he’ll get them out first. 

There’s only two other hostages in this room. There’s a man pushing fifty in the corner, his suit pressed and name tag perfectly placed. He’s probably been manager here for upwards of twenty years. He’s got nothing to lose, a wild card in these situations. 

Next is the guy who’s Auston’s age, who spoke out. He was standing in front of him in line when this all went down. He’s got a lean but defined frame, blue eyes, and an ass that stretches out his joggers. It's an unfortunate observation, in a time like this; one that costed Auston his afternoon. 

If anyone at the agency asks how someone got the jump on him, he'll be the last to admit it's because he was checking this guy out. His colleagues already interfere too much in his dating life. He's refuses to fuel the fire for them. 

For a moment, for his own amusement, he images how the report might read. Possibly, 'I was taken off guard due to my completely irresponsible indulgence and the fact that I haven't had sex since my last mission in Boston' end line. Perfect. That'll get him moved up to captain real fast. 

Finally, the light coming in from under the door shifts, a signal that the gunman's leaving his post. Auston switches, a change from day to night as he gets in the right mindset. 

“I’m Special Agent Matthews,” he introduces to the small group. “My team knows where I am. We’ll be out of here soon.” 

There’s a collective sigh of a relief, which he appreciates.

“He’s too scared to aim the gun at you or your kids,” Auston addresses the mom, “he’s not going to hurt you if he’s not provoked.” 

She breaks down into relieved tears, holding her kids closer. 

He hates this part of the job. He sits down next to her, pulling out the granola bar he secretly kept when the gunman asked them to empty out their things. The man would’ve noticed a missing a cell phone, but not food, and Auston had skipped breakfast. He swiped it without thinking. 

Now, he hands it over as a peace offering. “You have my word,” he promises, “that if anything happens, you and your kids are my number one concern.” 

She takes the bar with shaking hands. “You’re so young,” she whispers. He knows. His whole team is CIA task force drop outs, left to the FBI after not being able to cut ties with their families at the ripe age of eighteen. Still to this day, three years later, his failure leaves a sour taste in his mouth. He has to remind himself it’s worth it, to see his sisters grow up, to see his parents each year.

He tries not to act nonchalant enough to make her feel bad for panicking while also trying to convey how experienced he is. It’s not easy to talk to normal people when your everyday life involves living nightmares. “This isn’t my first hostage situation.” He thinks it’s his mid-fortieth, maybe? He lost count sometime last year. “Help is already here, okay?” 

She squeezes his hand and nods. 

It’s weird, how things like this pull strangers together. He’s seen it everywhere, from the crowded streets of gang-infested cities to the victims of trafficking. There’s always someone with their arms around another victim, another foreigner just as scared as they are. Language barriers disappear among the comfort of a physical touch. 

But it’s not his forte. Not his job. There are paramedics for these things; people who aren’t used to unflinchingly pulling a trigger against a begging men’s head. 

Auston leaves her there, taking a spot up at the side wall, far enough from the entrance to not startle the gunman when he reenters, but close enough for hand-to-hand combat. 

The cute guy around his age that had been hugging his knees to his chest and shaking in the corner inches forward, crawling to sit next to him against the wall. Auston can’t tell if it’s for protection or reassurance. 

“I’m Mitch,” he introduces. 

Auston can’t read his play, but figures the kid’s in for a lecture whether he wants one or not. “It was brave of you to step forward, to try to protect the kids before, but it’s best in these situations if you just keep your head down and listen.” 

‘Mitch’ bites his lip and nods, all shaky and apologetic, like he can’t get his thoughts straight. Auston doesn't remember a time when his own heart beat or hands weren't perfectly steady while under fire. He thinks maybe it was before the sniper training, before he learned to pull a trigger in between heart beats to keep his aim precise enough to hit a target through 2.47km of wind. 

Mitch pulls his knees closer to his chest. “I just didn’t want them to be a part of this.” 

He’s in shock and still worried about the family across from them. So, good and cute, package deal kind of guy. 

Auston still has to stop himself from calling him an idiot out loud. The gunman had no care as he steadily aimed at Mitch’s chest. His sympathy for the mother and her children didn’t and doesnt extend to young men in lounge wear who just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. 

It’s hard to stay annoyed though as Mitch trembles like a leaf, his blue eyes wide and glossy with settling shock. 

“There’s nothing you could’ve done,” Auston reassures him, and doesnt know why. This kid isn't going to be a problem. He tried the hero thing and gave in pretty fast once the gun was pointed at him. He’s not a wildcard, he’s predictable. He doesnt need Auston’s comfort. This isn't necessary. “We need to let this play out for now. Let the guys on the outside handle it. If worse comes to worse, I’ll intervene.” 

“Why didn’t you before?” Mitch asks, and Auston’s surprised when it’s not accusatory, just curious. 

“There was only a short window of time that was opportune for me to take down the gunman,” Auston answers honestly. He doesnt want to let the kid know his plans were interrupted by him. 

“What happened?” Mitch asks innocently. His voice is soft between them, his body leaning into Auston’s as the trauma leaves him malleable. 

Already dreading the report he’ll have to write out, Auston sighs. “Circumstances changed. I determined that the possibility of the gun misfiring as I engaged the assailant would be too high, especially with kids involved.” It’s mostly the truth.

“Oh,” Mitch says and goes quiet. 

With a hand on the Bible, Auston would swear that he doesnt know why he keeps the kid talking. He asks about his family, his job, and what he was planning on doing today; anything to keep him from thinking about the fact that they’re locked in a room, awaiting either rescue or further danger. 

Mitch stays leaned against Auston’s side until the door reopens. 

It’s only natural that things go downhill from there, and fast. 

Auston’s too busy using his body as a shield while bullets fly to stop the gunman from grabbing Mitch and hauling him out of the room. 

It’s chaos; yelling, screaming, and sobs all mixed into one frantic breath after another. 

He never accounted for this: for the man coming in enraged, shooting without question. Something must’ve happened with the negotiations. Still, Auston did as he promised, covering the small family as bullets hailed down- mostly into the file cabinets above them- but it wasn’t enough. 

Mitch is gone, gunfire still sounding off down the halls. Auston’s moving before he’s thought it through, stopped only by the hand the frantic mother latches onto him. 

“Please don’t leave us,” she begs. He can’t afford to make another mistake. 

Stationed in front of her like a human shield, he cant help but count the bullets scattered around them. His own body is thrumming with adrenaline now, begging him to move and fight to steady himself. There’s an upwards of twenty bullet casings surrounding them. There’s no way the man has that bad of an aim. It was all a scare tactic. 

Auston’s to his feet before he can stop himself and consider duty over his word, over the way he let Mitch lean into the safety of his arms for the last hour, silently promising that he’d get him home as he kept Mitch talking, asking him about his family, his friends. It was a mistake to treat him like a person- to make this personal. 

The number one rule is to keep your distance from civilians and marks alike. They have people to handle the human side of these things, not field agents. This is why you don’t get involved, why you don’t learn that the guy next to you likes watching Friends after he’s had a bad day and loves his Mom more than anyone else in the world. You don’t learn that the civilian your protecting is about to celebrate his birthday in a week and that his family is taking him out to dinner and that he’s excited to see him. 

You keep an arm’s length and don’t look into it. You keep them talking, but don’t engage. You keep them safe without acting like a friend, a protector. 

It’s Auston’s fault that he was distracted and he wont let Mitch be a casualty of his mistakes. 

“I’m going to go out there,” he tells the mother and manager. 

The wide eyes he’s met with are too shocked to argue. “Lock the door behind me. Move everything you can in front of it and stay to the right side of the door, against the wall. Don’t come out until you hear police tell you to.” 

Their blank stares are disheartening at best. “Say you’ll do it,” he demands harshly. It’s not kind, but it’s enough to snap them out of shock and get them agreeing meekly. 

As he exits the room, into the dead quiet of an otherwise serene hallway, he waits to hear the door lock. 

It clicks a second later. 

Relief isn’t an option. He presses his back to the closest wall and listens carefully. It’s times like these when he misses their techies. There’s no voice in his ear giving him exits, locations, and escape routes, but even he’s had his fair share of blacked-out missions without Hyman or Brown to guide him. 

Gunfire disrupts the peaceful hue of sunlight that enters in through an office window. If they weren’t on an upper floor, he’d go back for the other hostages, but the drop isn't short enough to save them. Instead, he follows the gunfire to where he needs to go.

Where the hallway was calming, the lobby is concerning at best. He can see the police barricade, dotted with bullet holes, holding out the bank entrance. The fifth floor of the building houses too many other businesses for the floor’s lobby to not have been used as the negotiator’s center, so Auston takes one last look around and slowly makes his way to the barricade, watching his back the whole way. 

Morgan is there to meet him, his head peaking over pounds of concrete. 

“Good to see you,” he greets casually. Auston doesnt even have to ask; a vest, his badge, and a gun are handed over to him wordlessly. 

As he suits up, Auston recites what he knows. “We’ve got four hostages down the hall to the right. I left them to barricade the door. There’s kids in the group. The gunman has one other hostage with him: mid twenties, brown hair, blue eyes, average hight. His name is Mitch.” 

Mo is yelling orders into his walkie before Auston’s even had a chance to take a breath. 

“Think the kid- Mitch- with the gunman might be out already. We heard shots after the suspect declined to negotiate,” Morgan says when he turns back to him. It’s too casual of a way to announce a man’s death. 

Auston’s stomach clenches. There’s anger, regret, and a million other little things that stir his thoughts into action. His eyes shoot back towards the opposite hallway he came from. “I’ve got the shooter.” It’s a promise. 

Rielly will argue- he always does- so Auston doesnt give him a chance to stop him. He runs to the next wall of cover, takes a final, even gulp of air, and steadies himself. He goes to work. 

It feels like a blackout. 

He’s there, in the present, hearing harsh orders yelled at his back, and then he’s seeing red. After three years he thought he’d grow accustomed to the feel of loss, of fear, of heart-stopping adrenaline, but it’s been too long and he still cant shut it off the way the wishes he could. 

“Office one, right, clear,” he recites. Morgan’s response is never heard; Auston’s ear piece lays useless against his breast bone. It’s easier this way- easier to kill without a voice of reason in his head. 

He finds Mitch in the second room to the right, left to die in a pool of his own blood. Against the back wall, the assailant’s surprised look is wiped off his face without a hint of hesitation from Auston. 

There’s nothing like the recoil of a gun after a bad day. 

“Medics,” Auston commands into his open com, “Suspect down,” then, in relief, “Hostage is breathing. I repeat, hostage is breathing. GSW to right abdomen, blood loss significant. Second office to the right.” 

Auston’s hands soak in Mitch’s blood for too long, his eyes hooked on the rise and fall of his chest. Medics should’ve been steps behind him. 

Without a choice, after waiting for seconds that Mitch doesnt have, Auston releases one hand from covering the wound, smearing blood across his in-ear and face as he scrambles to get his com in. 

“Matthews reporting. Gunman down, medics needed.”

Morgan is barking at him loud enough to make him flinch before he’s even finished speaking. “You’re fucking fired.” It’s a weekly threat. His captain doesnt even take a pause before he’s running through the situation. “Bomb threat called in by suspect. I can’t send in medics until the building’s clear.” 

Mitch is still breathing, but he wont be for long. 

“Bomb squad?” Auston breathes out, like a prayer. 

“Clearing out the hostages.” 

“ETA on medics?”

There’s a silence that stretches on. Having to move, having to do something, Auston rocks forward, pressing harder on the wound leaking life out of the body under him. 

“Auston,” Morgan’s voice is apologetic, “We're looking at ten minutes, maybe more.” 

His eyes close in defeat. 

He’s not one for prayer, there’s too much red in his ledger for that, but he thinks the stream of pleas running through his mind that he’s too well trained to say out loud might count. 

Mitch’s weak groan is an answer from God. 

Nothing could stop the disbelieving, choked off laugh that breaks from Auston’s lips. He can hear his Mom’s voice in the back of his mind, whispering _el milagro_ over and over again. _Miracle. Miracle. Miracle._ Just like that. A chant of hope. 

“You’ve been shot,” he tells Mitch, when he gets his wits together. Today’s been a pathetic display of his professionalism. 

The shockingly alert eyes that latch on to him are a comfort. 

“Wow,” Mitch coughs, his voice ran rugged. “Th’s cool,” he says, his head lifting slightly so that he can stare down at where the bullet is lodged inches into his abdomen, covered perfectly by trained hands. 

Auston wants to tell him to look away. The blood is spreading quickly, coating his hands as he presses down harder and harder, yet carefully to staunch the flow of blood but not disrupt the bullet. Gun shots to the stomach are always tricky with so many important organs in such a small space. 

“I mean-” Mitch starts, seeming to notice the amount of blood- “Am I going to live?”

Auston cant look him in the eyes as he nods. “You’re going to be fine.” 

There’s no use panicking him. 

“Then, yeah, cool.” Mitch smiles- easy, unaware, possibly hallucinating- letting his head drop back to the floor. It’s probably good he’s not straining his abdomen by trying to look down anymore. 

“Is it bad it doesn’t hurt?” Mitch asks then. 

Auston’s patience is growing thin. They should’ve had paramedics in here by now. It’s a fake bomb threat from dead man, what does it matter anymore? 

“Better than the alternative,” he promises, knowing from experience. 

Mitch’s eyes don’t leave his until they squeeze tight as he gasps on a breath of sudden pain. Auston does what he can to make him comfortable and is rewarded by Mitch melting into the blood-covered floor beneath them. His hand, the one not unconsciously wrapped in the side of Auston’s shirt that’s sticking out from under his vest, runs through the blood, his fingertips skimming the surface. 

Mitch’s eyes wont stop staring into Auston’s when they open back up again, blue and watery. “Have you ever been shot?” He asks. 

Auston has to steel himself, brushing away the anxiety the question makes build up in him. 

“A couple times, yeah.” 

“Tell me about it,” Mitch demands. 

Auston cant refuse, not as the kid’s taking what could be his last breaths. 

“M’ke it good,” Mitch is just barely able to joke. He seizes up right after, breathing harshly through the discomfort. There’s a steady stream of tears falling sideways down his face that Auston doubts he can feel on top of everything else. 

It’s not his job, this human side, but Auston tries, because he owes Mitch that much. He really, really tries, even when the exaggerated parts of his stories make Mitch laugh and cough weakly, blood spraying up to dot his cheeks and smear over his lips. 

They’ve got minutes before he’s drowning, lungs unable to clot around the bullet. 

“Where are the medics?” The voice yelling is cracked and shaken by fear.

Auston doesn’t realize it’s his own until Mitch’s hand is snaked in the front of his shirt, patting feebly at chest to calm him down. 

“I don’t feel any pain, rem’ber?” he says. He shouldn’t keep talking, shouldn’t keep wasting breaths he doesnt have. 

Auston’s eyes feel too wide, his brain too slow. His shirt has Mitch’s bloody handprint embedded into the collar. 

“Don’t close your eyes,” he begs, his bravo gone.

He’s been on over two hundred special task force missions. He’s seen gruesome murders and rooms of bodies, but he loses it now. It feels like he’s standing on the precipice of three years of horror, all wrapped tightly into the body of a kid his age, helpless as he bleeds out under Auston’s hands. 

“I promise,” Mitch whispers, more air than tone leaving his stained-red lips, even as his eyes drop closed and refuse to reopen. 

Auston’s head bows. He’s never lost a civilian before. 

He’s not going to now. “Stay with me a little longer, one more minute,” he commands. _Milagro, Milagro, Milagro._ He tries to push a hand up to feel for Mitch’s heart beat, but taking away one hand from the wound proves to be one hand too many. Blood rushes up to run through his fingers. It’s a good sign. There’s still blood pumping, still a heart beating. 

“I know you can hear me,” he says. Mitch’s head is lulled, his mouth open just an inch, just enough to let out the blood coming up as he breathes. “You’re going to be fine. You just need to hold on.” 

When the paramedics come in, Auston flashes his badge, as if the vest isn’t enough. The blood on his hands stains over the words ‘serve and protect.’ He cant let himself feel right now, so he doesnt. Mitch will be his Milagro. 

“I’m protective detail, I can’t leave his side,” he lies. They don’t question it, too busy working to stabilize Mitch for transportation. 

At some point Morgan comes and stands at his back, watching over him as they wrap a breathing mask around Mitch’s mouth and nose. Auston’s ready for a fight, but Morgan’s hand squeezes once, tight around his shoulder before he’s gone. It’s the silent support that leaves him feeling like his strings have been cut. There’s no more fight to be had; it’s all down to Mitch now. 

Auston’s title works up until the operating room doors. “You can watch from the observatory deck or stand guard outside the operating room,” a nurse tell him, stern. He’s never been on protective detail in a public hospital before, so he takes her offer at face value. 

“Thank you,” he says, and chooses the observatory deck. 

It’s a six hour surgery. They need multiple blood bags. Auston’s no expert, but after so many hours he thinks it looks alright, all things considered. 

Willy joins him while the surgery’s wrapping up, a case file in one hand and an FBI jacket in the other. He tosses them both to Auston. “At least look the part,” he greets, and makes himself comfortable in the plastic chair next to him. 

“I was in a bit of a rush.” The scrubs they gave him in place of his bloodied clothes aren’t the most flattering. There’s no where to put his gun. It takes up the seat next to him, coved in damning gunfire residue. 

“Got a baggie?” he asks Will. 

One is handed over without a word. Auston wraps up his gun as evidence, then lets Will swipe a cotton swab over the back of his hand and wrap that up too. It’s his 87th kill. Another drop of red in his book. 

A new gun is placed in his palm. He puts it right back on the chair next to him, his hand hot from it’s touch. 

“You need to fill out an incident report before I leave,” Will tells him, easy, not acknowledging that they’re camped out to watch some random kid’s surgery. Auston’s thankful. He doesnt think he could talk about it yet if he tried. So he nods, flips through the file on the robbery, reads the name of the man he killed, and shuts it. It’s over, just like that. 

The silence between them is as easy as always.

“How mad is Babcock?” 

Tellingly, Willy grimaces, then considers lying if the twitch of his fingers against his thigh is anything to go by. In the end, he tells the truth. “I mean, you’re alive, so there’s that.” 

“I’m not in Washington though,” Auston points out unnecessarily. His target is probably long gone. It took weeks of research and planning to set up the drop. 

“I think Zachy’s more angry than Babs,” Willy says thoughtfully. 

He ignores Auston’s responding eye roll. 

“Kid told me intel goes sour pretty fast around this time of year. Says he’s kicking you off the case.” 

Auston huffs out a laugh. As if. “He doesnt have the clearance.” 

Willy just shrugs. “There’s no fury like the fury of a techie when his research gets dumped.”

It’s true. Next mission’s going to be a bitch. Silently, Auston plans to send Agent Hyman a gift basket or something. Willy would never stop ribbing him if he knew. 

It’s not fair when all his partner has to do is bat his eyes to get away with literal murder. Hyms is disgustingly soft for the swede. It’s the worst kept secret in the whole division, but Will’s a good friend, so Auston pretends it’s still all tight lipped- the thing, not thing, they have going. 

It’s just hours later, once his report is filed and Willy is gone, that he gets a call from Babcock. 

He does end up kicked off the case, but not because of Zach. He’s kicked off his case because Babs thinks he needs a psych eval to return to the field. 

It’s been ten hours since the incident and already he’s itching to get back to work, sick of sitting still as a guard dog against the back of Mitchell Marner’s hospital room. Around an hour post-surgery he gave up pretenses and took up the chair next to the hospital bed. 

He’s starting to think the nurses know he’s lying about being an assigned protective detail. 

He’s not even sure why he’s still here when he doesnt have to be. It just feels wrong to leave, like he’s left a part of his job undone. 

“Please, sir. I’m fine.” He tries not to sound like he’s trying to convince himself as well. Today’s been different, for him. Difficult for reasons he cant pin down. 

“Check in, Matthews, now.” 

It’s an order, so Auston goes, one last look back at Mitch before he exits for good. 

When he gets back to command center, the bullpen is blissfuly quiet, operations ceased over the unplanned hostage situation. Any team still out in the field in their relatively small division is either out of state, out of country, or too deep undercover to come out for such a small event. 

It seems silly, when Auston thinks too hard about it- the way they send each other willing into the hands of some of the world’s most dangerous people, but come together in an a-team effort for a random robbery. 

“Auston.” Babcock waves him up to his office that overlooks the pen. He doesnt even have a chance to change. 

“Sir,” he greets, and decides not to sit. These verbal lashing don’t usually last very long. Babcock is a to the point man if nothing else. 

Auston’s not surprised when his superior turns on him with an unimpressed look. Despite that, he still manages to sound both stern and worried. “You ditched a three week long take down because a kid got shot in front of you. We don’t normally hold civilians’ hands as they’re taken in for some stitches.” 

Auston has to forcefully bite his tongue. It was a six hour surgery. The kid flatlined twice. 

Babcock, like always, reads him like an open book. When he speaks again, he’s gentler. “It was the first time innocent blood would’ve been spilt on your hands, Auston. Just take the week break I’m recommending. Go on vacation, take a nap, get into yoga. Do something that’s not this-”

There’s nothing Auston hates more than having his place on his team questioned. “With all due respect, Sir, there’s nothing I want to do but this.” 

Like he expected the answer, Babcock sighs, then paces the back wall of his office. It makes Auston’s hands sweat a little where they’re clasped behind his back. 

Seeming to have made up his mind, Babcock hovers behind his desk chair, then settles a look on Auston. “Stand down,” he orders. 

It takes effort to relax. 

“It’s not easy, to almost lose someone-”

“I’ve lost agents before,” Auston is quick to argue. Babcock silences him with a glance, but Auston can’t stop his stream of mental rebuttals. There was Sparks, in Utah. Gone right in front of his eyes. Then there was Polak-

Babcock cuts into his list of fallen agents, “Losing a teammate is different from losing a civilian. They don’t sign up to be put under fire. You see the panic in their eyes when they face down a gun.” 

Auston tries to think of a time when he’s seen anyone he knows flinch at the sight of a barrel. There was that kid that pissed himself in training. And there was Willy, that one time in New Mexico. Auston still has nightmares about it. 

“If you’re thinking about New Mexico, stop,” Babcock orders. “That wasn’t your fault.” 

“Willy was scared then, Sir.” It doesnt feel like throwing his teammate under the bus- not when Babcock was right there with them, up to his waist in a river of blood as they were paraded down a water channel like the fresh catch of the day. The rookie who followed them into that mission trailed behind them by a rope, turning the water behind and around them red as he bled out. 

It was a nightmare in every sense of the word.

“We were all scared then,” Babcock answers. It’s the ‘we’ that throws Auston, like after twenty years in the FBI, Babcock still is capable of feeling fear. 

“Sir-”

“Mental health is important, Auston. You’re not going to be captain if you can’t set a good example for your men.” 

It’s a firm end to any argument. 

“Go to Rielly, get your forms. I don’t want to see you in here until at least next Monday. Take your time and get your psych eval when you’re ready.” Babcock’s too well versed in Auston’s temperament to give him another chance to argue. 

“You’re dismissed.”


	2. Chapter 2

Dawn comes day after day for Auston with a sense of helplessness. Each morning he watches the clock move closer and closer to 7:12am, but in his head he’s standing on the subway platform, heading into work. 

Most days by noon on his 'vacation,' he’s accepted reality and is instead achy with laziness. He feels disgusting, having wasted yet another day, so he forces himself to get up despite not having anything to do. 

Why people negotiate for vacation time is beyond Auston. 

He doesnt own a tv, he doesnt have any friends that aren’t from work, and his family is a six hour plane ride away. He’s not exaggerating when he says there’s nothing to do. 

By the next day in his endless cycle of boredom, he starts considering Babcock’s advice to try out yoga. Anything to leave his apartment. 

The gym is a long walk in the cold, and thanks to the perpetual disappoint that is his luck, the class he wants ends up being full, but there’s an open pilates one that doesnt sound nearly half as bad. 

Like most things outside of work, it proves to be a waste of time, useless besides for the way it leaves his thighs burning worse than that one time he had to scale the side of the Willis Tower. 

But the physical pain after was nothing compared to the mental torture of having the lady next to him continuously try to set him up on a date with her daughter. 

If Auston didn’t know for a fact that his team was in Washington for the last week, he’d have seriously suspected the pilates lady to be involved in some back water, dark espionage. Since they are though, he’s inclined to believe that he just radiates the kind of energy that pushes people to interfere with his personal life. 

Either way, it wouldn’t have mattered. ‘Gina,’ the pilates lady’s daughter, was too busy checking out other girls to give Auston the time of day. He’s not salty about it, but he knows for a fact that he had the best ass in that room. Freddie’s told him before that spandex works for him and Freddie doesn't lie. 

The incident does get him thinking though. 

About civilians. None specifically, but more generally.

He’s just not sure if he’s allowed to date a civilian. It seems like a liability, a security risk.

Somewhere along the way they must've told him, or given him an information packet about it all, but he doesn't remember. If it didn't apply to him, he probably brushed it aside.

And, if he takes that a step further and considers the way Gina had unflinchingly turned him down, he realizes he’s not even sure if his sexuality is his own choice. Back when the CIA pulled him and Will into their training program, the first lesson was setting them up to deal mentally with deep cover. 

They learned that they weren’t themselves anymore. For a year, Auston was “Lucas,” a young entrepreneur. He was french. He was rich. He had a boyfriend; Agent Kadri who was “Nael". 

Auston had needs. It didn't matter if- and that's a big if- he was straight, Agent Kadri and him were all each other had. 

At some point it stopped feeling like a cover. Lucas was as much of Auston as Auston was himself. 

Even in bed, in the privacy of their home, he’d pant Nael’s name and look into Nael’s eyes. He didn’t see ‘Auston’ in the mirror each morning. His hair was cut in a fade, his skin turned unnaturally tan, and his contacts put hazel in his eyes.

By the end of that year, he didn’t respond to his own birth name. 

Even still, Willy came out the other end worse off; his cover was blown in the last month of the operation. 

When Auston saw him again he was hardened in a way he’d never forget, steel in his eyes. To match, there were new scars on his shoulders and a limp in his step that lasted for weeks. 

Looking back, they should’ve dropped the program then and there, but there was fear among the other agents. No one knew what happened to you if you chose to go home. Each of them already knew too much about how the CIA operated, how coms were set up, and how to be a secret operative. They were secrets people died knowing.

Being ‘sent home’ implied an agent had cracked. There were no doubts those candidates were dead, killed off to protect case information. It was too risky to test the waters, to ask to be sent down, back to the FBI. 

Instead, him and Willy stuck it out till the very end, leaning on each other each night to get through the next day. 

Then, before their program graduation, they were told they’d never see their families again. 

Auston had waited silently among killers and spies until their final briefing was over. By the time the last word was said, he had a plan. He grabbed Willy, a bag, and they fled. 

They made it two states over before they were wrestled into an interrogation room. 

Auston had accepted his failure with closed eyes, waiting for a bullet to end his life, praying that they wouldn’t shoot Willy first. He had a good run, but no fight left in him. 

It was the fact that they had left their computers and tech behind that had saved them. 

Their supervisors were impressed. Any gadgets worth that much in money and information would’ve insured them protection from any other agencies. Leaving it behind earned them respect and trust. They were able make a deal. 

By the next morning they were transferred to the highest division in the FBI, available only to the best of the best who couldn’t stay in the CIA. 

It somehow still felt like failure. 

The lessons he learned in that program made him into the person he knows is ‘Auston Matthews.’ 

And ‘Auston Matthews’ has no sexuality. He is who his case needs him to be. At his core is the boy who grew up loved and cherished by his family, but that boy is covered in years of training, torture, death, and blood. He’s nothing more than a chess piece now. A weapon. 

Thinking this way hasn’t brought him happiness, but it has brought him success; he’s still alive at the age of twenty two. It’s gotten him through nights spent wondering if he’d make it through till morning alive and days with another person’s blood on his hand. As far as coping mechanisms go, his is the most favorable he’s seen in his line of work. 

It still doesnt make it any easier. 

Thinking too hard about his past, his future, and his self puts a decidedly sour taste in his mouth. It’s why he ends up looking for a distraction and making the promise to himself that he'll never step out of line again, so that he doesn't ever have to sit here and think about why he is the way he is.

Used to having cases perfectly closed, the recent attempted robbery hangs heavy over him. 

He knows he could find Mitch at the hospital, even if he's not awake yet, so he goes, and instead finds himself hassled into holding a teddy bear in one hand and a balloon in the other. The lady in the gift shop said that people love getting presents from loved ones when they’re stuck in the same room all day, being tended to by strangers.

Auston wouldn’t know. He woke up from his last injury in a ditch, the stitches he’d done with shaking hands torn out of his side. Willy had come for him eventually, but only after their mark had been killed. 

This level of comfort and care is as unfamiliar as it is uncomfortable. Stalling the inevitable, Auston buys chocolates for himself, then asks the same lady which ones are best for shock. Willy always said Swedish chocolate, but Auston’s pretty sure it doesnt matter as long as it’s something small and sweet or bitter. 

Predictably, Mitch isn’t awake by the time he makes his way up to the room, but Auston wasn’t expecting him to be. He also wasn’t expecting the two men and one women camped out in the small space. 

It seems obvious when he thinks about it; like why wouldn’t someone as stupidly brave and kind as Mitch have people who would wait around to watch him sleep? 

The miscalculation is enough to have Auston hovering, unsure in the doorway. In his head he counts down the days, trying to remember when Mitch said his family was visiting for his birthday. 

His answer comes in the form of one depressingly deflated birthday balloon, slowing sinking closer and closer to the floor in the corner of the room. Mitch’s family must’ve come up early. Balloon or no balloon, the room lacks any jovial themes. 

“Are you Agent Matthews?” 

He hates how the question makes him paranoid, his shoulders tensing like he’s ready for a fight. 

Telling the hostages who he is was situational, done only to keep them following his lead. People in general aren’t supposed to know- aren’t supposed to be asking in loud, busy hallways. 

“Yes Ma’am,” he nods. Seemingly over night, the small list of people who know his real profession has grown to double its size.

Despite the differences between the women in front of him and Mitch, it’s clear she’s Mitch’s mom. They have the same expressive eyes and wide mouths. 

Auston feels like he takes on years of suffering and thankfulness from her one glance. 

“Would you come in?” She asks. 

Her son had pushed his way under Auston’s arm while they were held in that back room. Now, that same kid’s Mom steps aside, welcoming a stranger into the hospital room that Auston put him in. 

The man who must be Mitch’s Dad gets up to shake his hand. The older brother who had been keeping his distance follows, his grip posturing with its intent to bruise. It’s overly formal for people who are in clothes that are nearly three days old. 

“Nice to meet you all,” Auston forces out. He hands over the bear and balloon without fanfare, left with empty hands that he doesn’t know how to place. Stuffing them in his pockets feels too casual, but he already committed and he thinks it’d be even more uncomfortable to pull them back out again. Blatantly, he wonders how rude it would be to immediately say goodbye. 

The whole time he very carefully doesnt look at Mitch, cognizant of the three pairs of eyes glued to him.

There’s something about the helplessness of an unconscious person that makes Auston feel like a rod has been struck down his spine. He feels alert to the point of hyper vigilance, his eyes constantly flicking to the window and aware of the open door at his back. 

Like he’d been hoping they wouldn’t, Mrs. Marner’s eyes start to water when she takes up her spot at Mitch’s bedside. It draws Auston back into the present, trading one anxiety for another. Of everything he could’ve possibly imagined happening, her hand coming up to pull him closer to the bed was pretty low on his list. He itches under her touch. 

“You saved my baby.” 

There are reasons why Auston has never been in a public hospital. People tend to emote in places like this. 

Against his best efforts, his eyes close at the words, but he forces them back open a second after. He has to remind himself that it’s not a lie to her. She wasn’t there. 

“I just came to see how he was doing,” Auston tells them. Honestly, he doesnt know why he came here or what he was expecting. It wasn’t this. 

As hard as he tries not to, his eyes eventually have to land on Mitch. 

‘Obsolete’ is a word Auston’s fond of, when he thinks of hospital beds. What he sees now is not that. It’s nowhere close. 

This feels wrong. Dangerous. 

“I have to get back to work.” The words blurt out of his mouth without warning. He’s thinking only of himself, of his infatuation with a victim and what it’ll take to tear himself away from this poisonous daydream. 

Mitch’s parents nod as if in understanding, even as their faces tell a different story, nearly begging him to stay, to answer questions, to let them fawn over him. “You must be busy,” Mitch’s Dad acknowledges.

Auston wishes that’s what he meant. 

He pays his dues by suffering through unnatural goodbyes, counting down the seconds till he can break away. 

Navigation of unknown spaces is his forte, but hospitals are always a little tricky. When he makes his escape, he goes lower and lower into the building. Silence is found in the basement levels, away from patients, nurses, and doctors alike. 

It takes effort he doesnt have to hold himself up against the wall as he tries to get a grip on himself. Losing one battle today isn't enough, apparently. He slides down the wall without poise, pulling his knees up for some form of barrier from the rest of the world. 

If his team saw him now, he’d never be on another case. 

Everyday of his life has been meaningful to someone but himself. He’s saved presidents and countries, yet nothing enticed him enough to ever be cause to look back after the job had been done. Mitch makes him look back. Mitch makes him pause and wonder and think- why this case. Why him? Why el milagro? Why now? 

Anger pulls Auston back to his feet. His whole life has been about the job. Everything he’s worked for has lead him to this moment and he’s not going to mess everything up because of one, insignificant case of nightingale syndrome. 

It was almost his first civilian loss, but the civilian is fine. It’s time to move on. Mitch Marner is as good as gone to him. 

There’s no ‘milagro.’ No heavenly voice leading him Mitch’s way.

Mitch is alive simply because they got him to the hospital in time. That’s all there is to it. 

Auston brushes off his clothes, takes one last deep breath, and compartmentalizes this unfortunate incident in with his cover training. Right now, he needs to be someone else. He needs to be a field agent who has his life and priorities in check. It’s just another cover. 

When the day comes, three days later, Auston passes his evaluation with flying colors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lemme know what you think!
> 
> Comments feed the writer :)


	3. Chapter 3

It’s dark out, not even the hint of a star in the sky stretched above Auston. Zach and Will have been with him in New York and Germany both in the last seventy-two hours, stuck following a lead that knows they’re getting close. Somehow this is the first real breath he's getting in days, the world quiet around him for once. 

Where New York was crowded and deafingly loud, Germany is compact but less harsh somehow.

Usually he finds himself favoring the cases that take them out of the country, but even with the moment of peace, this one feels lacking.

Between these two, very different worlds, the same chase with only different landscapes has left him wishing for something more thrilling- something to really devour him. 

“ _I’ve got eyes_.” Willy’s voice is quiet over the communication link embedded in Auston’s ear. 

“Are you alone?” 

The non-response is answer enough. 

Will’s a big guy, who can take care of himself. But still, it’s hard to be grounded during a case, Left to watch the streets for a sign or misstep. 

“ _Agent N029, hold position, do not engage subject_.” Zach’s breathing is uneven. It makes Auston wonders how he even does it, always listening to him and Will toe the line of danger. 

“ _H011, is that worry I hear?_ ” 

William has never been a subtle dude. 

“11, 29, Keep the coms clean,” Auston reminds them. There’s a reason they’re secured and only using agent ID’s. If someone is listening, they can’t know that Willy would hesitate over chasing down a mark versus attending to an injured teammate. They have to be clinical. 

Auston’s reminder comes with a echoing silence, all conversation halted. 

It’s a shock, when minutes later Willy’s voice comes back stark and frantic. “ _I’m engaging_.” 

“ _N029 do not engage_ ,” Zach repeats. “ _Do not engage_.” Auston waits along with him with baited breath for a response. 

When seconds turn to a minute, he watches the hotel doors across the street, then switches his gaze over to a store front. There’s no hint of the operation taking place twenty stories above their heads. 

A minute passes, then another. A black car pulls up to a restaurant across the street, but it’s not anyone of concern. 

Impatiently, Auston looks skyward, towards the towering hotel Willy is inside. If he has a fatal wound, Auston wont be able to make it to him in time. 

The voice that comes over the coms next is crisp and frantic, and is undeniably Willy’s ‘I fucked up’ tone. “ _I need evac on level seven_.” 

Auston takes his first breath in what feels like hours. 

“ _Coming to you_ ,” Zach chirps. “ _Report, N029_.”

There’s a harsh gasp of breath over the lines, “ _We’ve got two bodies_ ,” followed by the unmistakable sound of a gunshot. “ _Um- Probably a third_.” 

So it’s that kind of night. 

“What part of don’t engage was unclear?” Auston asks, as genuinely curious as he is annoyed. This was supposed to be a grab and go mission, no unclean hands. 

“ _The part where I was spotted_ ,” Willy seethes. It’s sloppy, even for him. 

“ _I’ve got the package_ ,” Zach tells Auston, so that he knows Willy’s been picked up from the drop off. 

There’s something about the undisturbed streets that makes an uncomfortable chill roll down Auston’s spine. 

“I’m taking a detour,” he says into his com. The words surprise even himself. “I’ll meet you guys back at home base.” 

Despite the darkness above him, the city center is lit up and inviting. He itches to go closer, to feel its heat despite knowing he shouldn’t, and without reprieve, he does. 

He takes side alleys, walking the city streets like any other person would. Germany is beautiful like this, lit up subtly in opposition of a dark sky, perfectly displaying its architecture. Maybe someday he’ll move here, away from it all. It feels like nothing could disrupt the serene vision of their night life. 

Kids run by him, ice cream melting off their fingertips. 

Down the block, music drifts into the street. 

He could imagine himself here, living like anyone else, going out to eat and drink. 

But the sirens come like they always do, their unsettling screams hounding away as they circle closer and closer to the Capella. The room Willy demolished will be cleaned by now, the sounds of a fight all that’s left of the three men who stayed there. 

It’s a shrill awakening, to Auston. He’ll never live here, never walk these streets without a mission to guide him. His isn’t a life you live into retirement. 

Done with his detour, and feeling the mental punishment of his stray thoughts, Auston heads straight back to their hotel. 

“Where were you?” Willy asks, when Auston gets back. He’s freshly showered, bite marks spotting his neck and disappearing down into his shirt collar. 

“Having less fun than you, apparently,” Auston chirps. 

Zach comes out of the shower in a similar state, no illusion to what they were doing as Auston was out. 

It’s Zach's embarrassed blush that pushes Auston over the edge. “I know the whole behavior analysis thing ruins the secrecy, but you guys could at least try to pretend like you didn’t fuck.” 

Zach doesnt take offense, but Willy does. He stands, bristled, like he’s still on edge from tonight. Ready for a verbal lashing, or maybe a beat down about his own social life, Auston waits for a hit that never comes. 

For once, he’s read the situation wrong. 

“Get down,” Willy hisses. 

After years, Auston doesnt hesitate. He crouches by the back of the bed, signaling for Zach to step back into the bathroom door. 

The waiting is the worst part. 

Minutes feel like days before Willy speaks. “I saw a sniper glint, fourth story down from the Steinplatz.” 

The gun shot comes a second after like a cruel taunt, shattered glass flying throughout the room. 

When Auston lifts his head, the bullet is embedded in the wall in front of him. Trajectory suggests it passed less than a inch from his head. 

They don’t waste time. The essentials are grabbed, evidence is swept into bags, and like that they each disappear in opposite directions, a safe house in mind.

Auston doesnt look back. 

He spends the night trudging through the forrest, then huddled in the back of a hunting shed listening for a single snap of a twig in the distance, wondering if his teammates are even still alive. He’d miss them, if they weren’t. 

By the next morning they’re together again, boarding a private flight home. All of it done, just like that. 

It’s customary for them to look each other over, but this time Zach and Willy are blatant in a new way, each pressing in close for a kiss once the jet is in air. 

Auston finds himself looking away. He’s happy for them, really, he is. He just wishes they’d talk it out. They have a good thing going, something agents don’t normally have the luxury to experience. 

“So, how’d your night go?” He asks, when they break apart. Zach doesnt blush, so Auston knows they didn’t spend it together. 

“The fourth line took care of the sniper for us,” Willy tells him. “But Johnsson got shot.” 

“Dead?” Auston asks with frown. He liked the kid. 

Even without looking, Auston can feel Zach’s eyes bear into him, his gaze concerned and all too calculating. He’s never liked how callous Willy and Auston are about the deaths of their coworkers. “No, he’s recovering now. Thank God.” 

It’s good, they did good. 

Even Babcock greets them happily when they land, debriefing packets at the ready. 

Life continues to go on as usual. 

Auston flies to Oregon and Vancouver over the span of the next two weeks. He gets another kill under his belt and misses death in the form of a another headshot, this time by less than a centimeter. He even feels it swipe through his hair. 

The close calls continue to get closer. 

That week, side by side, him and Will accept metals from the prime minister. 

By the next night, Zach finally forgives Auston for not turning up in Washington, but only after Willy tells him about the civilian involved- about Mitch. It’s funny how in this line of work getting held hostage isn't reason enough for forgiveness for missing a mission, but finding a civilian you lose your mind and sense of duty over is. 

It’s pathetic, the sympathetic look Zach sets on him. As if he’s all knowing when him and Willy can’t even really get their shit together. 

“No comment,” becomes Auston’s favorite phrase while they’re traveling.

“You’re not some famous scarlet,” Zach tells him on one of their longer flights. 

Willy snorts. He’s tangled up with Zach, but even still his eyes are appraisingly pointed at Auston. “Look at that jaw line, those perfectly shaped brows. He’s gorgeous, he’d be perfect for film.” 

Auston winks at him, gives him a good angle and blue steel smirk. “No comment,” he says. 

Before he knows it, he’s home again. Back to the same four rooms that haunted him all vacation. 

There’s no shared sleeping places, long travel days, and no best friend hovering by him at all times. As much as he gives Willy shit for it, the guy can tear things out of Auston like no one else can. 

The conversations they’ve had about Mitch have been too telling. Hindsight, like always, has proven to be 20/20. He’s as embarrassed by his confessions as he is terrified of them.

At Willy’s insistence, he picked up a tv the other night, so at least now he has background noise to cancel out the loneliness. It’s a cheap fix for the plethora of his problems. 

It’s why he doesnt question the sound of a knock on his apartment door at first.

He figures it’s just one of Friends’ peculiar set noises, but the pounding turns more insistent the longer he tries to believe the sound isn't coming from his own entry way. 

Whether or not he’s up for a fight, it feels like one’s coming. He grabs his gun lazily on the way to the door, cocking it and pressing it to the wood as he checks the peep hole. 

There’s just a figure, hood up and hunched, looking down the hallway. After two near-deaths in the last couple of weeks, Auston’s weary. 

Running the chances of his address getting leaked over him being followed home, he swings the door open. 

It’s Mitch’s surprised face that has him reeling, pointing the gun away and looking both ways down the hall before he pulls the other man inside. 

“Are you crazy?” It’s rude to yell at guests, but Auston’s not exactly in an accompanying mood. He shoves Mitch further inside, locking his apartment door behind them. 

It’s unfair, really, that Mitch looks just as shocked as Auston feels, as if he wasn’t the one showing up on a stranger’s doorstep. 

“Start talking,” Auston commands, and pulls the extra dead bolt down. He doesnt know if he’s trying to keep the world out, or Mitch inside. 

“I got a call from your friend William, he gave me your address,” Mitch rushes out, his hands up in surrender. He wont stop looking down at Auston’s hands, his eyes nervously fluttering to and from them to his eyes. 

It’s the gun, Auston realizes a second too late for it not to be awkward. There’s probably some trauma there. 

Clumsily, he unloads the clip and shoves both it and his firearm on the counter. _Fucking Willy_. 

“You shouldn’t be here. What if you were followed?” Auston feels like he’s spent half his acquaintance with this kid lecturing him on his stupid, death-defying decisions. 

“I wasn’t, I circled the block three times before I came inside,” Mitch promises. His eyes are still wide in innocence, clearly still shaken by the gun. It’s just another reminder of how much he doesnt belong in Auston’s space- in his life. 

And still- even taking just a second to look him over- Auston’s somehow pleased by the sight of him. 

Mitch looks good. Even in the hoodie he’s drowning in, Auston can tell he’s put on a few pounds. It suits him; makes the bags under his eyes change his face to not look so hallow like he did as he was bleeding out. 

He’s only three weeks post-trauma and already out on his own, a good time scale for any civilian. 

And yet despite all the good, Auston can still see the strained way he’s holding himself too, his bullet wound still too new to be jostled. 

“You should sit down,” Auston prods, and tries to pretend it’s so that Mitch feels overpowered with someone standing over him as he’s interrogated and not because he cares about his well being. “You do realize circling the place probably just made you more suspicious right?” 

Mitch shrugs. “No one’s kicked in the door yet,” he jokes weakly. 

Auston has to physically restrain himself from double checking the hallway on his security cameras. He’s learned one too many times that saying stuff like that just jinxes the situation. 

“So you just got back from a mission in Germany?” Mitch asks, when Auston doesnt say anything. 

“That’s classified,” he replies stonily. William is walking a thin line that Auston considers punting him off of. 

“I just came to say thank you,” Mitch tells him. 

It’s a joke. It must be. 

“I almost got you killed,” Auston says flatly. 

Mitch laughs like that’s the funniest thing he’s heard all week, careful still not to jostle his side. “I’m pretty sure you holding all the blood in my body is the only reason i’m alive.” 

There’s no arguing with no logic, so Auston gives up pretenses. He plops himself down in the chair opposite Mitch’s at his kitchen table. It’s the first time the chair has ever been occupied. 

“This isn't healthy, what’s going on here,” he explains carefully. It’s hard to get a read on Mitch and he cant tell if it’s because he doesnt want to understand what he’s seeing or because he’s just seeing what he knows he wants to. “You have white knight syndrome.” He doesnt mention his own assumed diagnosis. “If you see a therapist and deal with the trauma, it’ll go away.” 

Mitch doesnt look impressed, or half as worried as Auston wishes he would. “One,” he starts, listing points off on his fingers, “I am seeing a therapist and she thought seeing and thanking you would be a good idea. Two, you don’t get to tell me what I do and don’t have. I’m dealing with things spectacularly, thanks.” 

It’s a blatant lie. Auston wonders which part Mitch thinks is ‘dealing with things.’ Maybe it’s the bruised eye bags that tell of sleepless nights, or the way he still keeps looking over at the gun on the counter. 

Anger makes Auston want to scare Mitch away, to show him that this life isn’t for him. 

It feels like everything pent up in Auston releases as he slams his hands on the table, towering up and pushing his chair back so hard it’s sure to leave a dent where it fractured against the wall. 

How can this kid be so stupid, constantly putting himself in the line of danger? 

“Was that supposed to scare me away?” Mitch stares him down unflinchingly, even as Auston can feel the way his breath caught in his throat in fear.

It’s a losing battle. His opponent is too stupid to run when he’s given the option. 

Because nothing else has worked, “please leave,” Auston begs.

Instead, Mitch stands up slowly, careful to not bend his abdomen. “I was hoping you’d want to get a drink sometime,” he says at the door. 

“No.” Auston’s tired and jet legged. He just wants to go to bed. 

Not done with him, Mitch smiles sweetly. “Willy gave me your number. He said I’m invited out with the team for drinks on Friday. I’ll buy you one then.” 

“Mitch-”

“Auston.” And something about the way he says it, so tired, so firm, has Auston’s mouth snapping shut. “I almost died, okay? That might not be new for you, but it was for me. I was scared and terrified, and I still wake up thinking I’m alone in that room, bleeding out. And every time, all that keeps me sane is that I know you’re going to come and talk me through it. You saved me, okay? I just- please let me say thank you. It’s one drink.” 

Auston can’t. He shouldn’t. 

But Mitch’s eyes won’t leave his, putting him under a microscope he can’t run from. It’s just like that day, Mitch demanding stories out of him as he pulled in breath after shaky breath, fighting to hold on to every minute. 

“One drink,” Auston agrees. At least the kid is durable. 

He might just survive yet. 

Mitch beams at him, soft and pleasant, like he didn’t force his way into Auston’s life and home, disrupting everything in his path. 

It’s torture, to have someone he thinks he could like in his home base, standing by the door as if they’re just saying goodbye after a night of watching shitty sitcoms and laughing along to laugh tracks. 

He can’t give into this. It’s dangerous, for both of them. The least he can do is keep Mitch away from this life. 

“I’ll walk you to the subway or a cab,” Auston offers. 

Mitch takes it like he knew he would, stuttering over excuses. “I’ll be fine,” he promises, but Auston shakes his head. 

“I’m not taking no for an answer. You get to buy me a drink, I get to make sure you didn’t get followed here. It’s a win-win.” 

Sense seems to flood Mitch for once. He gives in easily, keeping pace with Auston even as he goes slowly, listening and watching around them. 

It’s probably not the romantic walk back he was expecting, but Auston figures Mitch has to learn sometime that this agent life isn't everything it’s cracked up to be. 

“Thank you,” Mitch says again, once they’ve hailed a cab and Auston’s checked the license and eyed the driver. 

“You said you have my number?” Auston asks. 

Mitch nods, his permanent smile pressed even thinner as he tries to hide how pleased he is. 

“Just text me when you get home and lock up.” 

The eye roll he’s met with is exasperated beyond reason. “Promise,” Mitch says anyway, when he meets Auston’s insistent look. 

“Have a good night.” 

Auston watches his cab till it turns down the street. 

He spends the rest of the night on his work computer, pulling up footage of Mitch’s walk. Each angle tells a different story. 

There’s no tail, but there’s nervousness and steps that are second guessed, especially as Mitch gets closer and closer to Auston’s place. 

Auston’s almost too distracted to notice the man sitting on the steps across from his apartment’s side door, his hat tipped but eyes undoubtedly following Mitch’s movements. 

He fast forwards, rewinds, blows up the image, then repeats. 

Sickness settles in his stomach like lead as he combs through each second of the footage. 

It isnt until his phone rings that he stops obsessively punishing himself with the tape and time stamps. 

“Agent M034,” he answers. 

“It’s me,” Zach rushes out, “I got an alert that you’re reviewing footage.” 

“M-” Auston almost says his name over the secured connection, but stops himself just in time. It doesnt matter anyway, Zach is barreling over him. 

“The tail, it’s Agent T091.” 

Auston nearly breaks his phone in half. 

“Why do you have an alert on my computer and why is T091 trailing him?” 

“Willy wanted to make sure ‘M’ got there okay, don’t be mad-”

Auston hangs up on him. 

He’s too furious to see straight. 

‘Take the alert off my computer,’ he texts Zach. 

Then, to Will, a simple, elegant, ‘ _fuck you_.’ 

By the time he’s in bed, eyes tracing the ceiling as he contemplates how to best remove Willy from his life, he gets a responding text. 

‘ _Trust me, Matty_ ,’ it says. 

Auston’s trusted Willy with his life, with his fears, and with his family’s contact information. But somehow this feels more daunting then the past six years combined. 

‘ _I’ll try_ ,’ he sends back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how I ended up with a 3,000+ word chapter after so many months but it just happened out of nowhere. Sorry friends for the lack of updates- hope you like the new chapter :)
> 
> Comments feed the writer!


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